


When Light Is Lost To Us

by ghostboi



Series: Absence of Light [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Confused Sam, Dean can't decide if he wants to be cruel or not, Demon Dean, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, POV Crowley, POV Sam Winchester, Possessive Dean Winchester, concerned Crowley?, references to past non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 14:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4567986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostboi/pseuds/ghostboi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley receives some visitors</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Light Is Lost To Us

**Author's Note:**

> [Notes: Admittedly, I still haven’t yet seen Season 10 (I know! Ugh. Soon, soon.) I’m not sure if anything I write of this is Canon-compliant, beyond Dean being Deanmon for a bit & Crowley being..well, Crowley. Pretty much my version of things from here on out, so apologies for any misinformation, oocs, or inaccuracies.]
> 
> This one is pretty much smut-free. Starts with Crowley's POV, switches to Sam's near the end. Could possibly be read as a stand-alone, though it will make more sense (with implied references) if the first chapter is read.. well, first.  
> Vague'ish ending: One more chapter of this one coming.

Crowley heard the familiar rumbling of the Impala’s engine through the open window, and raised his eyes from the book he was reading. He closed gently the book – _Ars Almadel_ (17th century, 1st edition, of course) - and stood to cross to a large bookshelf that encompassed one wall. He slid the book into its place before moving to his desk. 

Crowley had just poured himself a second glass of Glencraig when the sound of footsteps reached his ears. He swirled the contents of the glass for a moment, watching the light play off the liquid within. His eyes shifted toward the direction of the hallway and the approaching footsteps as a somewhat muffled-sounding voice reached him:

“You said we were going home.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed slightly as recognition hit him immediately. Sam Winchester. He tilted his head, listening, as Dean Winchester’s voice answered,

“Eventually. You really think I’m going to let you get me in the bunker so you can use the Devil's Traps and exorcism voodoo against me?”

So the Dynamic Duo were back together.

Crowley watched as, moments later, Dean Winchester appeared in the doorway. His eyes shifted to the lurking figure of the taller Sam, whom stood near Dean’s left shoulder, eyes shifting around the room. 

“Hello, boys,” Crowley greeted. He paused to swallow down his scotch, taking a moment to savor the taste, before placing the empty glass on the desk. “What brings my two favorite nightmares to see me?”

Dean crossed the room, to the fireplace, barely casting a glance at Crowley in the process. His brother followed behind, a bit more hesitant, eyes flicking to Crowley, around the room, back to Crowley. 

“Need a place to crash for a few days,” Dean trailed his fingers along the mantle, studying the few objects that decorated it, before turning to face Crowley. The Scot watched in interest as the elder Winchester’s eyes flicked to Sam before commanding,

“Sit down, Sammy.”

Sam’s flinch was barely perceptible, but it was there. Crowley raised a brow, watched as the younger man moved to seat himself in a large armchair. The demon had noticed the blood trailing down the younger man’s face and the fact that he was wearing one of Dean’s shirts, which was stretched tight across his large frame, the moment the two had entered the room. He glanced at Dean, mildly curious, before turning his eyes back to Sam.

“I see you found your brother, Moose.”

Sam raised weary eyes to him, glanced to Dean, back at him. The man simply nodded before his hazel gaze returned to the floor, and Crowley’s brows shot up again. He looked to Dean, and found that the elder Winchester’s green gaze was locked on his brother. Something in Dean’s face sent a thread of uneasiness wiggling through Crowley, and he shifted restlessly. Dean’s eyes moved to him, and Crowley shot the man a smirk. 

“Were you asking me if you could stay here, Dean? I don’t think so.”

“Don’t be a bitch, Crowley,” the other retorted, moving to the liquor cabinet and fixing himself a drink. He could see the Mark on the man’s arm, even from here, “It’s just a couple of days.”

Crowley gave a put-upon sigh - “Do help yourself,” - and snapped his fingers; a white box appeared in his hand. He moved around the desk and crossed the room, box in hand, until he reached Sam. The big man raised wary eyes to him, and Crowley shot him a wry smile. 

“You need to learn to take better care of your things, Dean.”

Dean glanced over at him, eyes flicking to Sam, before shrugging a shoulder, “He’s fine.” 

Crowley doubted it. The younger Winchester was pale, dirt streaking his face and clothing, dark circles beneath his eyes. His lips were cracked, and there was the matter of the once-bleeding wound on his head that had left streaks of blood down his face and in his hair. He didn’t miss the fact that, though his fists were clenched and resting on his knees, Sam’s hands were shaking. Nor that the man hadn’t spoken a single word since entering the room. The fact that Dean didn't seem very concerned merely reiterated the demon's presence in the elder Winchester. 

“He doesn’t look fine,” he voiced his doubts aloud as he laid the white box – a first aid kit – on a small, round table beside Sam’s chair. He opened the box and rifled through it for a moment, before pulling out several packets of alcohol pads. He tore one open and, eyes meeting Sam’s wary gaze, spoke, “Easy there, Moose. Just going to take a look at that head wound.” 

Sam glanced to Dean – Crowley followed his gaze and found that Dean was watching them. That uneasiness crept through him again as he tried to pinpoint the expression on Dean’s face. Dean gave a brief nod; His eyes returned to Sam as the younger man spoke, voice little more than a cracked whisper, “Okay.” 

Realization struck Crowley like an oversized truck – Sam was _afraid_ of Dean. Momentary fear, perhaps, but in this moment, the younger Winchester was afraid of the older one. 

Crowley’s eyes narrowed slightly as he contemplated this discovery; he masked it by placing a hand on Sam’s chin – not missing the way the young man flinched – and tilted his head a bit. He began to clean the blood from the man’s face with the first alcohol pad and asked, “So.. what happened? Don’t leave me in the dark here.” Sam hesitated, casting another glance at Dean, before admitting quietly, “It – I don’t really remember.” Crowley slipped his fingers into Sam’s hair, searching: the other winced as he pressed on the raised knot he found. 

“Concussion?” 

A nod and reply of, “Yeah, I think so.” 

Crowley made a noncommittal sound, his gaze flicking to Sam’s face as the younger man tried to clear his throat. He discarded the first alcohol pad, covered now with dried blood and dirt, and picked up a second, before instructing, “Get your brother some water, Dean.”

Dean remained motionless for a moment, before finally moving across the room and down the hall, presumably in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Dean do this to you?”

Sam’s eyes flicked to Crowley’s face; the demon caught the momentary uncertainty in them before it was masked. “Maybe,” the young man admitted after a moment, “I think so. He was there, and then something hit me. I woke up – someplace else.” 

Another noncommittal sound as Crowley began to clean the cut just above the man’s temple. Sam winced at the sting of the alcohol but caught himself before pulling away. 

Dean returned a minute later with a glass of water, and Crowley paused in his tending of Sam’s head wound. He wasn’t certain why he was administering first aid of any kind to the man, but here he was, doing just that. He stepped back, giving the brothers a bit of space, as Dean joined them and offered Sam the water. Sam’s eyes fell on the Mark on Dean’s arm; he averted his gaze, glancing back at Dean’s face, as he accepted the water. Older brother gave younger a smirk and a wink, and Sam flushed, color tinting his pale face. 

Crowley watched as Sam downed the glass of water like he was starving for it (and perhaps he was; his dry, cracked lips were a sign of dehydration). Dean stood next to him the entire time, watching: when the younger Winchester had emptied the glass, the older took it from him with a soft murmur of “Good boy.” Sam flushed again, eyes on the fireplace, and Dean moved away from him, gaze lighting on Crowley.

Crowley locked gazes with the Dean for a moment as he stepped back to Sam to finish cleaning the younger man’s head wound. He smirked, recognizing the look that had been etched in Dean’s features since his arrival as Dean’s eyes momentarily flashed black before going green again; possessiveness (and not the demon-possession type). Crowley brushed his fingers through Sam’s longish hair almost gently, pushing the dark locks out of the way to better inspect the cut there, and Dean glared at him. Crowley, with a slight smirk, ignored him mostly to focus on the cut he was cleaning. It was when he slipped a hand to the back of Sam’s head, urging him to move it slightly while instructing, “Turn your head a bit”, that his gaze flicked back to Dean: The other man _growled_. Crowley and Sam both looked over at him, and found that Dean’s fists were clenched at his sides, his eyes gone black and his teeth bared slightly. 

Crowley _heard_ the dry clicking of Sam’s throat as the young man tried to swallow, felt beneath his hand a tremor run through him. With a frown, he eased his hand away from the back of Sam’s head, releasing him, and Dean’s tense posture relaxed a bit. Crowley rolled his eyes: drama, drama, drama.

“Stuff it, Dean,” the elder demon muttered aloud as he contemplated whether the cut needed butterfly strips- he decided against it, given its location, “You should have taken care of this yourself.” He pointedly ignored the other man as his fingers trailed down Sam’s jaw, brushing against a bruise that discolored his skin. He slipped his fingers beneath Sam’s chin, tilting his face up to study the hazel gaze: pupil dilation as the light shone more fully in his eyes was a bit slow, he noted. He raised a hand, moved it to Sam’s left so Sam’s eyes followed it, and noted that the man’s tracking of his movement was slightly sluggish. Definitely a concussion, then. 

“I think you’ll live,” he finally announced aloud, releasing his hold on the younger Winchester and stepping away from him. 

“Good to know,” Sam muttered tiredly, head falling back against the chair and eyes slipping closed, “Thanks.”

Crowley turned to look at Dean, caught the possessive look etched on the man’s features as he stared at his younger brother. His brows raised briefly, then he gave a mental shrug. It was.. really not that surprising, when he thought about it. The brothers had always been excessively codependent on one another.

“You can use the bedrooms at the far end of the house,” he finally acquiesced. Far away from his own – the last thing he wanted was for either of these nightmares to be in a room anywhere near his own when he was -- enjoying quiet time. “You’re lucky I’m fond of you, Squirrel, or I would tell you to piss off.” 

Crowley watched as Dean, eyes their natural shade of green now, crossed the room toward the door. “C’mon, Sammy,” the elder brother instructed. Sam opened his eyes and, after a moment, pushed to his feet and followed his brother out of the room and down the hall. 

 

Sam followed Dean through the large house, into the kitchen. He watched as Dean made himself at home, going to the fridge and grabbing several bottles of water from it. The man tossed him one suddenly – he almost missed it, grasping it just before it slipped from his fingers. Dean motioned with his head for him to follow and he did, opening the water as they moved through the house. The bottle was empty by the time they reached one of the bedrooms, and he felt slightly better. Less thirsty, anyway: his head still ached. He was glad to be free, at least, of the still sticky, partially dried blood that had plastered the side of his face before Crowley had cleaned his cuts.

Sam halted suddenly, almost running into Dean’s back, as his brother stopped in front of him. He watched, apprehension in his features, as the older man turned to fully face him. Dean’s eyes ran over the length of him, assessing: the man took the empty water bottle from his hand and tossed it aside. 

Sam flinched visibly as Dean raised a hand toward his face, and his brother paused in his movements. Dean studied him, a slight frown curving his mouth, before brushing a fingertip down his cheek.

“Going to run away from me the minute I take my eyes off you, little brother?”

Sam was motionless for a minute, thinking about it. Finally he shook his head no, eyes sliding closed in resignation. He had searched for days when his brother had disappeared, had felt more than a little lost without his presence. Even after what had happened back in the storage unit, he knew he wouldn’t leave now that he had found him again. 

“Better do it now, if you’re going to do it,” he wasn’t certain if Dean’s words were an offer or a warning; regardless, he shook his head no. 

“’m not going any place.”

“That’s good,” Dean’s fingers trailed lightly down his jawline, pressed slightly harder at the bruise there, before sliding around to the back of his neck, “That’s good, Sammy.” 

His eyes were closed, still, when his brother’s lips brushed lightly against his own. A second brush against his mouth, hand tightening slightly on the back of his neck, sent an unexpected shiver through him. 

“My Sammy,” Dean murmured against his mouth, tugging him closer and pressing against him, “My good boy.” He sighed softly at the words as another shiver raced through him, exhaling against his brother’s mouth and drawing a low, possessive growl from the older man. 

Some part of his mind insisted that he pull away, reminded him that he shouldn’t be allowing his own brother to kiss him, but Sam ignored it. He was tired, his head aching still, and he wanted to lie down and sleep for a week. He was, alarmingly, slightly afraid of this version of Dean which was standing before him, the one whom had locked him in a storage unit and had coerced sex for much-needed water. Still – still. 

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t okay. It wasn’t 100% his brother in front of him. It shouldn’t happen. He knew that, he did. Still – some very tiny part of his mind whispered that maybe this _was_ okay. Maybe this was better than being locked up and practically tortured. Maybe it was better than being alone. (Maybe, maybe some small part of him wanted it, had wanted it for a very long time. Maybe.)

A sudden, confused sob tore from Sam’s throat. It was unexpected, he wasn’t certain where it had come from, but there it was. He opened eyes that were wet with tears (also unexpected, when had that happened?) as Dean pulled back a bit to look at him.

“Ssh. Sammy, shh.”

Fingers brushed across his cheek, caressed lightly beneath his eye as a tear trickled from it, and another sob tore from his throat. 

“Dean..”

“I’ve got you,” his brother tugged him close, pulled him over to the bed. The older man sat down on its edge, pulling him down to sit beside him. It was hard to believe that Dean could shift them so that Sam seemed to be the smaller one, head resting on his brother’s shoulder and Dean’s arm holding him close, but the man did it. 

“I don’t understand.” Words that he had spoken back in the storage unit, and they sounded as confused and miserable now, even to his own ears, as they had then. 

Lips pressed against the top of his head and he heard Dean murmur, “You’re mine, Sammy. That's all you need to understand right now.” He swallowed and allowed his eyes to slip closed as the other played with his hair, fingers stroking through it.


End file.
